Fly Fujairah...

she said, and so we did; browsed

its souk.  A riot of colours

hung from makeshift rails

cut from shoots of bamboo

bordered the creek.

Hints of amber, saffron,

and patchouli, ran rings

around the wind

that blew her hair

that hid her face,

as did her beaded,

blue silk dupatta.

We explored its shore –

the sands – deserted

but for goats

roaming free

amongst the olive trees

fringed the sea.

I took pictures of her

taking pictures of them,

on an afternoon

brimful of Bedouins,

bangles, and bindis,

tamarind and

tangled talk,

and a fingernail moon

with Venus intent

on getting in on the act;

a beacon, beckoning,

beckoning.  A beacon

burning bright, on such

an Arabian Night.